


Lay me down gently, lay me down low

by Demus



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Curses, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Major Illness, Plague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27780247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demus/pseuds/Demus
Summary: 'It took the herbalist first.It started as fatigue, endless fatigue that drove her to her bed, where she sweated and swooned until the sleep took her life.Then it took the priest that gave her the last rites. Then it took everyone else.Now it has a new prize.'Geralt watches Jaskier battle an unnatural sickness, standing guard as it steals away his life.(With regards to the warning - there is a twist in the tale, as with all the best fairy stories)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 103





	Lay me down gently, lay me down low

**Author's Note:**

> Dipping my toes into this fandom (hello!) with a miniature Witcher fairytale about sickness, and maybe a little about love. Would love to hear your thoughts :)
> 
> Title stolen from Kate Rusby’s ‘Who Will Sing Me Lullabies?’  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x9RD-nae8ns
> 
> 'Lay me down gently, lay me down low  
> I fear I am broken, and won’t mend I know  
> One thing I ask when the stars light the skies,  
> Who now will sing me lullabies?'
> 
> CW; serious illness, implications of terminal illness, major character death (....or is it??)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own 'The Witcher'

It took the herbalist first.

It started as fatigue, endless fatigue that drove her to her bed, where she sweated and swooned until the sleep took her life.

Then it took the priest who stood over her to give the last rites.

Then it took the blacksmith, who’d attended the priest’s pony.

Then it took the blacksmith's husband and her son and her son's teacher and friends.

Then it took everyone else.

Now, it has a new prize.

Geralt listens to Jaskier’s heartbeat as it grows thin and thready, because the sickness wants him too. The bard's eyes are already glassy, already too bright in a face grown gaunt, and he stumbles as he walks, all of the dancer's grace gone from his legs.

The plague, whatever it is, is claiming him breath by faltering breath, and Geralt _lets it_.

The Witcher watches as Jaskier’s fingers fumble, unearthly cold settling into his skin, catching its claws into his bones. He watches Jaskier shiver, even as sweat beads his face, traces the furrow of his brow as thoughts flutter out of his reach. His speech slows, slurs, and the exertion sets him panting, his lungs rattling as the tide of the illness rises, inexorable, to drown him.

Within a week, he is confined to his bedroll.

Within another, he will be dead.

Geralt sits at the bard’s side. There’s an acrid sweetness in the air, the rich scent of rot, of grave dirt and leafmould. The sun has long since set in Jaskier’s eyes, dusk-dimmed and dull, still beneath drooping lids. His heart trembles in his chest, the last, desperate tremors of a butterfly’s wings. The Witcher has to lean close to hear it.

In the dark of night, the sickness claims him.

Silence.

And then, instead of drifting free from the tangled net of Jaskier's body, the sickness jerks, then flails, then opens Jaskier's eyes.

Medallion humming and silver sword loosed from its scabbard, Geralt watches the thing sit up, unsteady in its coat of flesh, and glance about itself.

"Well, well," it says.

There's a faint glow emanating from beneath Jaskier’s clothes, runes etched in dye flickering to life, a golden web to catch a bloated fly, a gamble scrawled across human flesh by a sorceress' hand. A dice cast.

The thing that's wearing Jaskier uses his lips to smile, bats his eyelashes coquettishly. "Clever," it breathes, with Jaskier's softest vibrato. "Such clever meat."

Geralt says nothing. The sickness is turning over Jaskier's hands, pressing at the calluses on his fingertips and tracing the prominent blue veins at his wrists. It clicks Jaskier's fingers, letting out a hiss of laughter as fire flares in its palm - at Jaskier’s temple, a patch of hair fades from brown to grey, the penance paid to balance Chaos.

"Yes," the thing says, grinning Jaskier's grin. It doesn’t need breath to live, only to talk, so there is an odd cadence to its words, a stilted whistle of air from lifeless lungs. "Oh, we will eat _so many_."

Geralt snorts. "Get fucked."

Blue eyes glitter. The plague tilts Jaskier’s head in a poor imitation of curiosity. “You will kill us? In here? Here is already dead.”

The Witcher bites back a growl. He rises, drawing his sword in one swift motion and laying the tip at the creature's throat. It studies him, unmoving. There's nothing of Jaskier in its gaze, all cruelty and inhuman malice, all greed and hunger. “I don’t need to kill you,” Geralt says, pressing the metal into borrowed flesh. The sickness flinches, the glow from Jaskier’s chest flaring at the touch of silver. “You’re trapped in a corpse. You’re fading already.”

The thing bares Jaskier’s teeth and tries to lunge for him, but Jaskier’s blood is still and clotting, his muscles stiffening in death, and it only succeeds in getting to Jaskier’s knees before Geralt raps the flat of the blade against its cheek, dropping it onto its back. 

“You _cannot_ -”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Blue-ish lips draw back in a snarl. The sickness spits, a brackish glob that splatters harmlessly off Geralt’s leathers. “You will _suffer_ -”

“I watched him die to set your snare. That’s enough.”

Like all monsters, the plague is cowardly in death. It cringes and whimpers as it fades, all defiance banished by the certainty of its fate. Geralt watches it in silence, taking no pleasure from the creature’s suffering - it whines with Jaskier’s mouth, begs with his quicksilver tongue, and when it finally succumbs, it is Jaskier’s eyes that close, Jaskier’s limbs that still.

Weary, so weary, Geralt sheathes his sword and moves to stand guard over the body.

The Witcher waits.

Stillness.

Silence.

And then...

Breath, blessed clear breath, free of the rattling cough. Jaskier’s heart clatters in his chest, bold and brazen. Geralt drops to his knees, tugging the gloves from his hands with his teeth, impatient to touch; Jaskier’s forehead is still slick with sweat, his hair lank and greasy, but his skin is warm, blood-warm, and colour blooms in his cheeks as the seconds lengthen into minutes.

Alive, and whole.

Geralt does not crumple beneath the weight of relief. He stands, hands steady, and goes through the familiar motions of recovery - water set to heat over the fire, cloths dipped and soothed over the bard’s skin, washing away the sour stench of sickness. Clean blankets and warm water dribbled carefully into his mouth with his head tipped back against Geralt’s shoulder, the first to pass his lips in more than a sennight. 

It is only as the sky lightens, darkness giving way to the creep of dawn’s reddened fingers, that Jaskier begins to stir. He shifts in Geralt’s arms, letting a soft, confused sound before he blinks, the sunlit sky rising in his eyes, and looks up at the Witcher.

“It worked, then?”

His voice is a whisper, hoarse from lack of use, and it is sweeter than any lark’s song.

Geralt leans down and presses his forehead to Jaskier’s. He feels the clutch of his hands and breaths him in, the salt-sweet animal scent of life, of _human_ life. He hums an affirmative, too wary to speak - if he opens his mouth now, he might never stop the torrent.

Jaskier huffs. It’s a poor cousin of his usual laugh, but it settles inside Geralt’s chest, a gentle, feathered thing that settles at his centre, quieting the roar.

There will be time for words. There will be time for words, and kisses, and touches, but for now there is the thump of Jaskier’s heart, the rush of his breath, and slow creep of sunrise.

It tried to take the Witcher’s bard.

It failed.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Thank you very much for reading this far, I hope you enjoyed it! Any feedback would be warmly appreciated.

I am also open to writing a follow-up of saccharine recovery sex, do let me know if that would be of interest, and which POV you would prefer :)


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